


make me feel

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Biting, Early s4, F/M, Gentle Rough Sex, Hickeys, Kasius (mentioned), MCU Kink Bingo, Neck Kissing, Post-Kasius, Rough Sex, Smut, bc i'm a sap, but like, smut with feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 18:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15370584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: Finally freed from Kasius' highly sanitised form of admiration, Jemma can hardly wait to bask in the attentions of someone who loves her for all that she is, and all she's been through. Fitz, of course, is happy to oblige.-Rated M/E. NSFW. ft. neck kissing, biting, hickeys, and scar appreciation.





	make me feel

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for my [@mcukinkbingo](http://mcukinkbingo.tumblr.com/) "FitzSimmons" square, as well as for a combination of several prompts along similar lines on tumblr. Enjoy!
> 
> I'm still accepting other prompts (here or @theclaravoyant on tumblr), but am prioritising those that will help me fill my [bingo squares](http://theclaravoyant.tumblr.com/post/174958815476/prompt-me-mcubingo-edition) (some are nsfw).

“We’re engaged,” Jemma murmured, as if in awe. The cramped bunk didn’t bother her any more; in fact, she was rather enjoying the fact that she and Fitz practically had to spoon in order to fit. She’d missed the weight, the warmth, even the smell of him, and though that last part could have been better (when had either of them last had a chance to shower, after all?), she couldn’t begrudge a single moment.

“We are.” Fitz beamed.

They held their hands out together in the dim light, as if admiring their rings, though of course none were present yet. In another time, she might have teased him for not simply ripping a sconce from the wall and fashioning her something, but if she brought it up now, he would not stop until he’d actually done it, and what she wanted more than anything was time with him. Close to him. Kissing him. 

As if he could read her mind – and couldn’t he, always? – Fitz pressed his lips gently to the back of her neck, and then by her ear. 

“Turn around,” he requested. His voice was soft and low, and not quite rough. Textured, somehow, like velvet. It sent a little thrill through Jemma’s body and she twisted and turned until she was facing him and let his all-consuming eyes take the rest of her breath from her body. She couldn’t feel the weight of him as much like this, but she could live a thousand lives in those eyes. All the feelings – all the love, all the fear, all the longing, _everything –_ she had felt these past few weeks without him suddenly tumbled to the tip of her tongue, but then he cupped her hands in his and lifted them to his lips and the words wouldn’t leave any more. 

Or rather, the feelings were suddenly quashed by another. By a sense of… revulsion. She remembered other fingers caressing her wrists with much more sinister intentions, and instinctually, her hands clenched into fists. Her breath caught. Fitz looked up and saw the change in her – eyes wider, alert, no longer drowsy with love but struck by something in the moment that she was struggling to understand. He let go her hands, in case she was feeling trapped somehow, and asked: 

“Are you okay?” 

She nodded. “Yes. Sorry. Fine. It was rather pleasant actually.” 

She offered her hands to him again, and Fitz resumed his gentle touch, but this time, he kept his eyes on her face. 

“I was just thinking of something Kasius said,” she explained. “When I got here. He thought- he thought my wrists were beautiful, because they were unmarked. Without scars. He thought of me as… something pure, I suppose.” 

“You don’t want to be pure?” Fitz wondered, his brow creasing in confusion, his thumbs still circling her wrists as she gave a strange little laugh. 

“Well, no,” she said, and she sounded a little surprised that he should think anything else of her. “Not if it means I must be unmarked. I want to take risks. Put myself out there in the world. Make mistakes, make messes, get dirty, get hurt. Do the right thing. Fall in love. None of those things can be done with purity, because our hearts, our minds, even our knowledge is impure. Our bodies, especially.” 

“Bodies are gross,” Fitz agreed. “I’m glad you’re finally seeing my side of this.” 

“Shut up,” Jemma said, and half-rolled her eyes, and laughed again. “All I mean is, I am not pure. I’m covered in scars for one thing – good scars, bad scars. I think Kasius picked the only square inch on my body that hasn’t been battered to within an inch of its life at some point. But I also have thoughts and desires that aren’t pure. Bad thoughts, about murder and violence and jealousy… but good thoughts, too.” 

“Oh, I see.” Fitz nodded sagely, and though he knew not her entire speech was a joke, he let his lips quirk up into a tiny smile. “So this is all some elaborate way of coming onto me, is it?”

“Fitz,” Jemma scoffed. “We’re engaged.” 

As if that was all the coming-on that was needed. Fitz’s smile grew. 

“We are,” he repeated. 

“So what are you waiting for?” 

In answer, he leaned across the space between them and kissed her. She kissed back, too, with a positively wicked level of enthusiasm, and Fitz matched her step for step, and slid his hands under her shirt for good measure. He moaned into her lips, treasuring the feeling of her skin beneath his hands. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it. Six months. Longer. Of course he’d missed her face, her eyes, her voice, but if he were being honest, he may have to admit he’d thought himself above such things as missing her naked skin. Not so. (Jemma’s commentary on purity, it seemed, was becoming ever more relevant). 

They moved closer, Jemma’s fingers clawing at his jacket, Fitz’s hands riding up under Jemma’s shirt, until both of them became so frustrated they sat up, and stripped off the layers of material separating them. For a moment, they sat and stared at each other, awestruck.

“You’re…” Jemma murmured, trailing off as she reached out a finger to touch his pectoral. It was not as defined as some she had seen, of course, but it was un-Fitz-like somehow. But not in a bad way. Just… different. And good. Definitely good.

“I told you,” he said, looking distinctly proud of himself to have earned such a show-stopping reaction. “I do push-ups now.”

Jemma wanted nothing more than to kiss the smug expression off his face and since, for the first time in a long time, they were alone and she did not have to restrain herself, that’s exactly what she did. She pulled him to her, muscles and all, and kissed and kissed until their air became all jumbled, and time and space began to lose meaning except in relation to one another. She was the space between his hands, which ran over her hips and up to her breasts as he slowly kissed her back into the mattress. She could feel all the changes in texture as his hands crossed scar tissue, skin tissue, increasingly sensitive and aroused tissue. He kissed his way down her neck to her nipples, teasing them with his tongue and with his hands, still touching, always touching. Between the two of them, they wriggled her out of her pants, and his hands wandered lower, to the scars on her knees and shins and thighs and up again to her hips and belly and back down. Jemma moaned and stretched as if his touch were like tuning an instrument. She so loved the way he desired her, with the fullness and commitment of someone who had seen the best and the worst of her, who had known her almost half her life. Who had seen her at her most ugly and at her most beautiful and fallen in love with every bit of her. 

Tonight more than ever, Fitz gave special attention to the places he could feel were bumped and knotted and arisen, as if assuring those places that if they could not be pure in Jemma’s eyes that was only because they were beauty, they were tragedy, they were heroism, they were survival. He touched them, just as he kissed her, with a passion worthy of such traits, until Jemma was practically whimpering with desire. One of her hands grappled with his belt, the other with his shoulder blades; clawing at him, desperately pulling him close. As much as she loved her softer, cardigan-sporting Fitz, who would have happily studied her body and made languid love for hours even in this hideous bed, she loved this daring side of Fitz too. His muscles, the control he had over his body. His confidence, his heroism. He pushed back when she pushed him – or scratched his back, or pulled his hair. 

“Harder,” she asked. Begged? Demanded? She didn’t care. 

Fitz helped her with his belt and pants, and she shivered went she felt the hard length of him dip between her legs. He resumed kissing her breasts and her neck, and he laughed at her hunger. She was so adorable when she was desperate, losing command of herself – not that he could talk. He would have done anything she asked in that moment. It was just his luck that she didn’t ask anything, except another breathless, _“Harder.”_

He wondered if she knew that, each time she said it, he got harder. He wondered how to tell her, how to tease her with the news, and being quite a tactile person surprised to find he’d missed her skin, of course the answer came to him through touch. His fingers crept to her clit, where she was starting to get wet, and he rubbed her own wetness slowly around her until she snapped. 

 _“_ Dammit, Fitz, _harder!”_

He obeyed, of course, all of a sudden - moving his fingers as hard and fast as he dared, sending her nerves into a frenzy until her hips bucked, and her nails dug into his shoulders with an exhilarating kind of pain he’d never quite known before. Was this what she was asking for? It was quite thrilling. A little breathless, he relented immediately with his hand, satisfied with the arch of her back and the wetness on his fingers. On _their_ fingers, as she grappled to find him and force him to finish what he’d started. Together, they guided him inside of her, and she opened her legs as wide as they would go in this tiny space, inviting him in deep. It was an invitation he was only too happy to take up, but even that was not enough for her. As their bodies thrust together, into each other, still she clawed at his back, his arms, his hair, as if only absorbing his entire presence would be enough. Another bolt ran through him, of that pleasurable pain that came from being desired to the point of reckless, hungry abandon, and Fitz wondered if maybe, something close to what she wanted, would be to feel the same. 

As always, the answer came through touch. 

He kissed his way back up her breasts to her collarbone, not wanting to test his theory somewhere _too_ sensitive, and once he’d kissed and licked and prepared her as best he could in his flurried efforts, he gently nipped her skin. He sucked on the mark he’d left. He kissed some more. Jemma had said she had good scars and bad scars, but the only scars he could recall were from torture, abuse, and struggle. After her speech it seemed only fitting that, however temporary, he leave some marks of pure – or, perhaps more accurately, altogether quite impure – pleasure upon her. Just as he was sure she was leaving on him, as she dug her nails in again. 

“Oh, Fitz,” she breathed, tangling her fingers in his hair as if to hold his head right where she wanted it. “Do that again. Harder?” 

This time, there was a little uptick in her voice. She liked to dash ahead in matters of the bedroom, eager to try new and daring things that were not always Fitz’s cup of tea, but she was always checking if he was happy enough to follow. Sweet of her, Fitz thought, as he lowered his lips back to her neck and closed his eyes and bit down again. He savoured the taste, and the sound of her shuddering moan in his ear. What had he done to produce that, he wondered, and how might he do it again? Would he ever stop learning about the wonders of her body? In all their shameless wonder, it was a gift, and she was inviting him to explore. To push her. How far? He wondered, as he kissed his way back down to her breast. He looped a tongue around her nipple, asking permission, and was pleased to find he’d run her voice ragged. 

“ _Yes,”_ she begged. “God, yes, please.” 

Fitz smiled, and set to work. He was a gentleman, after all, and nothing pleased him more in moments like these, than to give his lady what she wanted.


End file.
